


Small Luxury

by choirboyharem



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-01-23 21:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18557968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/choirboyharem
Summary: Being stuck in Arkham again is awfully miserable, but at least Jerome has a decent distraction.





	Small Luxury

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Small Luxury](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991495) by [-Shjttyclass (Satanik_Black)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satanik_Black/pseuds/-Shjttyclass), [choirboyharem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/choirboyharem)



> this is an au of season two where jerome was stabbed, but not killed during the banquet. he was sent back to arkham. this is also very creepy and awful.

Bruce just sort of popped up in Jerome’s mind one night without warning. Nothing seemed to trigger the memory. It just happened while Jerome had his hand around his dick as some moron in the cell next to him shrieked at people no one else could see, making it impossible to sleep. 

He usually thought of bootleg snuff films and borderline-illegal porno mags stolen from clown caravans as a child. The time he got tased for being disobedient. The other time he was strangled for being disobedient. Killing his mother. Theo, the backstabbing, unfun-psycho, boring, wasteful piece of shit touching him and praising him, which wasn’t erotic anymore. (Fuck him for that.) Flashes of messy, bloody fucking that his brain could sloppily cram together. 

Jerome didn’t know why Bruce Wayne was suddenly at the forefront of his spank material. Really, he didn’t know a lot about the boy. Not enough. 

His brain didn’t seem to care, though. His brain offered him the short and dirty of everything that had happened at the gala, and short and dirty it was. Short and dirty and genuinely, seriously disgusting, the kind of disgusting that made Jerome’s stomach turn over from how horribly delicious it was. It made him giddy, relishing in the unholy, forbidden feeling of it. It was wrong. It was bad. So, so bad, so very much not allowed, so divinely sick that it got Jerome off harder than anything he’d thought of in, well, years, maybe. 

So maybe he fantasized about Bruce Wayne a little bit. The sad little orphan boy, no better off than Jerome himself, a victim of cruel, unfortunate circumstance. The poor kid who could go home and cry into his butler and all his piles of money. Jerome’s sympathy was limited, but he still felt the little fluttering twinge in his heart from being able to feel the connection they had. 

He remembered feeling the fluttering twinge from Bruce when he’d held him at the gala. 

He’d _held_ him. He remembered how Bruce had felt in his arms, how he’d trembled underneath that overpriced, European tuxedo, lips quivering. Bruce was shaking and terrified and it ran an undercurrent through him, making him flush from the panic and the heavy overhead lights and he’d felt so hot. 

Jerome remembered his mouth touching the boy’s ear and how Bruce had whimpered. Jeremiah could imagine him stripped down with his own fingers pressed into Bruce’s bare chest, drawing out the same sound as his other hand covered Bruce’s cock. 

Jerome could’ve taken him on the stage. Create a really nasty spectacle for all of Gotham’s elite to see, horrify them by molesting the prince of Gotham, stealing his innocence. Jerome could’ve ruined the GCPD and make them run around in circles, unable to do anything but panic and scream over this little angel crying because the nasty man was touching his naughty parts. 

 _How_ _familiar_ , Jerome thought, stroking his hand up, precum leaking over the head of his dick. There wasn’t a single kid who got out of the circus with their cherry still intact by age twelve. At least Bruce had just missed the cutoff point. 

Jerome really could’ve taken him on the stage, though. He could’ve stripped Bruce naked and covered him in chocolate and licked off every inch of his pale, pink skin. He could’ve dug a knife into Bruce’s thigh and carved pretty pictures into it, just to make him look a little imperfect. He could’ve kicked him over, pinned him down against the stage, and fucked his tight little ass until he cried big, gushing sobs, begging for a mommy who wouldn’t come to help. How would that feel? Jerome thought. Would it feel like a stage manager taking a boy by the hair and forcing him to lick someone’s boots because whipping animals just wasn’t cutting it in terms of perverted cruelty anymore? 

Jerome bit his free hand, sinking his teeth into the skin, shutting his eyes tightly. His breath came faster as his hips rolled up, meeting his gripping fingers. 

He could’ve forced open Bruce’s mouth, part his full, pink lips, and pushed himself inside. Tears would’ve rolled down his plush cheeks, whimpers muffled by the dick in his mouth as Jerome grabbed his soft curls and yanked his head forward. Bruce would’ve been trembling out of humiliation and oversensitivity, hard in his smart, fancy trousers, his cock twitching and leaking from just the act of what he was doing. He would’ve come in his pants before Jerome came in his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Jerome hissed, rolling onto his stomach, the head of his cock dragging over the sheets. His other hand sank its fingernails into the flat board of a mattress. His forehead pressed against the pillow, his mouth open and panting. 

He could’ve stolen Bruce away. Screw Galavan. Who cared about him and his idiotic power trip? Jerome could’ve taken Bruce as a hostage and dragged him behind the stage. Screw Galavan, screw Keane and whatever petty bullshit she had yet to resolve, screw everyone else. Bruce could’ve belonged to him. Obviously Jerome would put on more of a show to prove a point if everyone else was watching, but with the intimacy of a closed curtain, Jerome would tie Bruce’s wrists together and watch him squirm as he kissed and licked and bit every inch of precious skin.

Jerome had a kind of desperate urge to ruin someone like Bruce Wayne. Bruce was a kindhearted, gentle, clean, perfect sweetheart with a beaming smile and a laugh that made you want to pinch his cheeks. He had all the appeal of a schoolgirl. Jerome could imagine slipping his hand underneath a pleated skirt to fondle Bruce through cotton panties, Bruce’s thighs clad in long, white stockings trying to clench together.

He was close. Jerome’s breathing shook, his knee slipping over the mattress. Precum leaked from his slit, dripping against the sheet. 

He could’ve stolen Bruce away, anyway. He should have. He should have taken Bruce and made his loss of virginity worth it. Memorable from not just the trauma of it all, but because it would feel unlike anything else he’d ever felt. He would slick Bruce’s ass up and finger him with all the love and care he’d never get from being sexually abused by the Gotham elite who got tired of stealing foreign children off the backs of trucks and rearranging their organs. When Jerome slipped inside Bruce, it would feel so good, so tight and hot, clenching down around him. Bruce would cry at first, say ” _Oh, Jerome, no, that hurts”,_ but Jerome would shut him up with kisses. Bruce would loosen up and start to love it, his red little mouth gasping and moaning. Jerome would come inside him, make Bruce a sloppy, wet mess, make him come with babydoll whines as he wept for Jerome and called him nice names.  

Jerome imagined Bruce’s eyelashes batting and him saying, “Fuck me, Daddy” and he came in hot, thick threads, so hard he saw stars. 

 


End file.
